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Aimee
pulled me into a tight hug, and I forced myself not start weeping.

“If
someone finds out, Mia, he's the one that's going to suffer,” she said. “It's
the harsh reality here. Nobody wins in a game like this. You'll get your heart
broken, and he'll say goodbye to his license. A lifetime of work. Don't risk it
anymore. You need to end it.”

“I know I
do,” I told her.
 
“It just feels so
impossibly hard.”

Two days
later, the answer came in the form of a thick envelope and a congratulatory
letter:

I was
officially accepted into Cambridge.

Chapter 18

ALEX

Isabella

Iris

Ivy

Isla

Irene

India

Isolde.

I stared
at the list of baby names blurred against the computer screen's glare. Cait had
decided, officially, that she wanted our daughter's name to begin with an
I
,
for reasons even she couldn't exactly pinpoint – but here I was, staring at
this list, sifting through spelling variations and name meanings and all of
that cluttered nonsense. Since when did naming a baby turn into such a
complicated ordeal?

I shot
her a text, telling that I liked the sound of Ivy. Ivy Greene. That is, if she
would be taking my last name, which is something Cait had still remained mum
about. Not that, as of recently, she was talking much at all.

In fact,
the past week, she'd barely replied to any of my messages. She didn't pick up
the phone. And I was starting to wonder what exactly was going on, because God
knows she was still cashing my checks while I was busy reading these books on
what it meant to be a father.

And the
mother of my child seemed to have disappeared. Blip. Off the radar.

Eventually
I took it into my own hands, after the seventh call went unanswered, and drove
to her apartment. I knocked on the door, waited for an answer, and was greeted
by none other than Mason.

He stood
there, dressed in a T-shirt and dark-washed jeans, looking at me as if he had
no idea who the flying fuck I was.

“Mason,”
I muttered. “Is Cait around?”

“She's
found a job,” Mason answered. “She works at some clothing boutique around the
corner. Part time. She should be home in a few hours.”

“Fantastic.”

We didn't
really make eye contact. Neither of us wanted to. And all I could think about
were Cait's words at the clinic:
I don't want to do this alone
.

Mason
stood awkwardly in the doorway. And it was then, I acknowledged, that I really
had no idea who this guy was. All I knew was that he'd been sticking his dick
into my ex-fianc
é
e
months before she'd actually left, and that this guy – clean-shaven, built,
with his deceptively casual-looking clothes broadcasting Ralph Lauren tags –
was definitely Cait's type.

Make no
mistake, I knew what I was getting into when I met her, and I'd sure as hell
never call myself a victim. But I knew what she was, and I knew what she liked.
She did, too. And I'm sure Mason was all too aware.

“What do
you do, anyway, Mason?”

“Software
engineer. Why do you ask?”

“No real
reason,” I told him. “I'm just trying to figure this out.”

Mason
nodded for a long time. Long enough that I almost wanted to turn around and
leave. The awkward vibe had shifted into something tense, and what with us both
being two grown men, it could only result in one thing: someone getting
punched, or something breaking.

“We got
back together a few weeks ago,” he informed me, crossing his arms. “Anyway,
I'll let her know you showed up. It's nice seeing you, Alex.”

“Is it?”
I asked. “Alright. If you could just let her know one thing for me, because she
hasn't been answering my calls, or my texts, and this is starting to feel a
little grating.”

“What is
it?”

“Tell her
I like the name Ivy,” I told him. “That is, if she even cares at this point.”

Mason
looked visibly perplexed. His eyebrows raised, his jaw tightened.

“Alright,”
he said. “I'll let her know. Thanks for the input, Doctor.”

I should
have stayed. I should have let myself in, sat down, had a drink or something. I
should have held a real fucking conversation with Mason instead of the two of
us standing in the doorway of Cait's apartment, with me making a total asshole
of myself, and then just up and leaving.

At least
Cait had a job. But now I was yet again alone, sitting in my fucking Porsche,
wondering what the living hell was going on.

Glancing
at the digital clock, I took an aggravated breath. I had approximately ten
minutes if I wanted to get to the office on time, and traffic was back-to-back.
I spent the entire duration en route from Cait's apartment to the office with
my hands gripping the steering wheel, white-knuckled.

Nobody
seemed to note that I was late, though. Only Rebecca asked:

“Is
everything okay, Dr. Greene?”

“Yes,” I
said bluntly. “Everything is stellar.”

Was it,
though? Obviously not. Cait had gone MIA, Mason was a giant douche-canoe, and
all I could think about was Mia. Mia, on her knees, sucking me off in the exam
room. In all of its insane, utterly ludicrous glory. And I had never come so
hard or felt so terrified after an orgasm.

I
shivered at the memory, picked up my clipboard, and sighed.

My
little fox.

Then it
was business as usual. Mr. Heisler wasn't taking his prescribed medication for
heart-arrhythmia, and Mrs. Preston sobbed hysterically when informed that she
had a clogged artery as a result of her Diabetes gone unmonitored. I offered
her a tissue, tried to smile empathetically, and told her it would be alright.

Would it
be, though? Probably not.

When it
was over, I was happy to take off my lab-coat, toss it on the passenger's-side
seat, and close my eyes for a moment. I needed to decompress.

And of
course, when it came to matters of relief, there was only one thought second to
sleep that my mind wandered to.

I called
Mia, still sitting in the parking lot, counting the windows of the office.
There were seven. She picked up on the fourth ring.

“Hi,” she
said. She sounded sleepy. “I'm sorry. I was napping. Long day at work.”

“Busy?”

“No,” she
said muttered. “Just terribly boring.”

I smiled.
Not that she could see it.

“Want to
take a spin with me?” I asked. “We can visit the water again, if you like.”

“Yes,”
she said. And that was it.

I picked
her up, beyond grateful that the sky was clear, and the only few clouds were
thin as stretched cotton. She hopped down the steps of her apartment's
staircase with an almost child-like flounce; her hair bobbing when her feet hit
the cement.

Inside
the car, she gave me a peck on the cheek. I took her face in my hands, kissing
her more deeply, lingering against her lips. God, they were so soft. She tasted
like that same mint Chapstick. Simple and sweet.

She
controlled the playlist. I had downloaded a few Taylor Swift tracks onto the
iPhone. She played this song called “Style” about a hundred times, and by the
end, the only three words I could remember were
take me out
. I even
found myself half-singing them when the moment came, with Mia completely
overshadowing my vocals, belting them out like she'd sang the song a million
times over, and she probably had.

The ride
to Cocoa Beach took about an hour. The beach itself was blessedly empty, with
only a few scant people minding their own business. We found a spot by the
water, planting our feet into the cool sand, and Mia stared onward towards the
glittering ocean. The water was clear enough that we could see the array of
pebbles below, as if looking through glass.

“So you
really think it's stress?” she asked. “And not my heart?”

“It's not
your heart, honey,” I swore. “We've exhausted every plausible test. Anything
else would be redundant at this point.”

I took
her hand, pressing her palm to my mouth, kissing it. She leaned against my
shoulder, her hair tickling my chin.

“On a
scale of 1-10, how much of a pain in the ass were your other patients today?”
she asked.

“A solid
seven,” I told her, grinning. “They can't all be you.”

“Well,
that's not fair,” Mia noted. “We're pretty much doing it on a regular basis
now. I'd say that makes your judgment a little murky. We both know I've been
sort of a pain.”

“Yeah.
You're right.”

We both
laughed, even though it wasn't funny. It was a mess of a situation, and I could
feel it setting into my woven fibers with each passing day. The growing lust,
infatuation, fear and paranoia. The pressing, obsessive desire to hold onto
something that, as I gazed at her, full of sweet, tender adoration and bubbling
desire, I feared – almost as much as I feared Death – that I would lose her.
Forever.

When she
withdrew her hand, suddenly somber, I asked:

“What's
going on, little fox?”

She
picked up a broken piece of shell, then flicked it aside. And I'll be honest –
I was not prepared, although I should have been, for what came next.

“I got
into Cambridge,” she said. “So there's that. I did it. It's happening.”

Of course
it was. And despite the rush of blood, the wave of cold that hit me like one of
these waves, and the genuine sensation of devastation that threatened to come
dribbling out of me like a pathetic child, I knew that there should have been
no surprise. Mia was beautiful, and intelligent, and she deserved this.

I held
her against me tightly, kissing her temple.

“That's
wonderful,” I said. “God, that's fantastic. You did it, honey. You should be so
proud.”

“I know,”
she said, but she didn't sound proud. A feeling of vague sadness clouded the
words, making them heavier. “I am. I really am.”

She
nuzzled against me, her face tilted away, hiding her expression. As if she were
feeling the exact same things as I: the fear of loss, the whizzing tenderness
that coursed through my blood like flash-flood. Mia clung to me, her hands
clutching my shirt, her face buried against my chest.

When she
pulled away, I saw that her cheeks were flush. Her eyes were wet. She had
started to cry.

I tilted
her chin up, her eyes flickering towards mine.

“Honey,”
I said, almost a gasp. “Don't cry.”

She
leaned up, kissed me, wrapped her arms around my neck. When she slid onto my
lap, and my heart began fluttering, I insisted that we go somewhere private.

“Your
car,” she suggested. “I don't care where.”

I shook
my head. I wasn't going to fuck her in my car again.

I took to
her a hotel, and we made love with our bodies twisted beneath the bed sheets.
It was slow, and yielding, and when we came together, she kissed me again. My
clothes, including my badge, were scattered on the floor.

Afterwards,
curled up in the covers and catching our breath, Mia examined the laminated
nametag: Dr. Alex Greene, MD. It glinted against the sliver of light that shone
through the hotel window.

“There's
something I want to say to you,” she told me afterwards. “It's just, the
thought of it terrifies me.”

“Why?”

She
looked at me, her dark eyes like pools in the shadows.

“I don't
know,” she confessed. “It just does.”

Mia
dropped the name-tag, her glance cutting away.

“Tell
me,” I said.

But she
refused.

Chapter 19

MIA

Things
you shouldn't do when trying to forget about someone:

Have sex
with them.

Let them
hold you.

Continue
to text and talk as if you aren't actually trying to forget about them at all.

My
attempts, in shorthand, had been completely futile and entirely foreseen all at
once.

But,
Aimee was insistent.

“Can you
say massive fine and potential law-suit, Mia?” she asked. “Because that's
what's going to happen.”

“What do
you want me to say?” I said. I was busying myself with work at the library,
sorting through the few books that I had to return to their proper designated
spots on the shelves. “I feel wracked enough over the whole thing. I can't stop
it.”

“Come
with me to a party tonight,” she insisted. “I know they aren't your style or
whatever, but seriously, Mia, you need to do something. You're just not trying
hard enough.”

“I really
doubt that a house full of drunken frat kids is going to persuade me away from
the educated, articulate, extremely attractive Cardiologist, Aimee.”

She slunk
down to the ground, covered her face, and groaned heavily.

“Please
come?” she insisted. “
Please
? Just hang out with me. Eric isn't going to
show up until later, and I told this girl I'd be there, and I know it's stupid,
but I just really,
really
don't want to show up by myself. You're my
best friend, Mia.”

“Don't
play the best friend card, Aimee. For the love of God.”

But she
did. And it worked.

Fast-forward
several hours later: in the smoky murk of some shitty house party, Aimee handed
me a red plastic cup full of Coke and some kind of cheap liquor. It was mostly
liquor.

I sipped
it hesitantly.

“Mingle,”
she instructed. “Talk to some other guys tonight.”

“You act
like it's so simple,” I muttered. “How did Shakespeare put it?
Teach me how
I should forget to think
.”

“You're
so melodramatic,” she exclaimed. “Anyway, you know who broke up with his
girlfriend?”

Of course
I did. Did Aimee really think I was going to play the surprised,
emoji-expressioned girl? Evan. It was Evan.

“I really
couldn't care less, you know,” I informed her. “I'm not going back to him. The
thought of what we once had, to be honest, actually makes me want to puke.”

Aimee rolled
her eyes, instructing me to drink. I took another sip. Then, as she darted off
to meet Eric outside, I attempted to mingle. But it was uncomfortable, and
strange, and all so foreign. The house, belonging to some girl who apparently I
shared a Prob and Stats class with but couldn't even remember her name, had
invited Aimee. And thus, Aimee had me tagging along.

Turning
as the sea of people parted not unlike Moses had the Red, I spotted Evan
chatting it up with some guy with a ridiculous-looking braided beard.

I sighed.
I was ready to leave. I wanted nothing to do with this crap anymore.

But he
saw me, because of course he did. Because this is
that
part of the
story, where Ex-Boyfriend confronts Ex-Girlfriend, and damn, I wish it didn't
play out that way, but it did.

Evan made
his way through the crowd, his cheeks and nose reddened in such a way that I
knew he was already more than slightly inebriated. And when the following words
stumbled like building blocks out of his mouth, it was painfully obvious:

“Is it
true?” he demanded. “Are you seeing someone else?”

“Jesus
Christ,” I muttered. “Goodbye, Evan.”

I placed
my cup of adult beverage gingerly down on some side-table and immediately
stormed out the door. And Evan followed, because as these things go, he had to.

Aimee,
who was standing outside and sort of making out with Eric, turned to me,
alarmed.

“What's
going on?” she asked.

I glared
at Evan, then her, then sputtered:

“There
are moments in life that make me feel like a fucking idiot, Aimee,” I snapped. “This
is one of them.”

“Who is
he?” Evan demanded. “Who is the guy?”

“Oh, why
the fuck do you care?” I asked him. My voice was raised at this point, but it's
not like I was going full-on Jersey Shore. “You left me, remember, Evan? You
left me. And I'm just over it, alright? Jesus, why won't people just leave me
the hell alone?”

I didn't
have a car, so the dramatic exit didn't work all too well. Instead, I was
forced to stand there and wait for a cab, suffocating in the horrible humidity
and intermittently snapping at Evan, who refused to leave my side.

Aimee, on
the other hand, left with Eric and went inside. They didn't want to stick
around for the shit-show. I didn't blame them.

“You
don't know him,” I told Evan. “So it doesn't matter.”

“So you
are seeing someone,” he said. “It's true.”

“Who told
you?”

“No one,”
he said. “I just know.”

“Oh?” I
mused. “Please tell me how you've become privy to information by just having a
hunch.”

“Well...”
he stopped. “You never tried getting back together with me, and you never tried
texting or calling or anything. Never tried talking to me. So I just assumed
there was someone else.”

A part of
me was relieved that this was Evan's form of piecing things together; his
splattered rationale sewn haphazardly together by the simple assumption that
because I wasn't still trying to keep him tucked away in my back pocket, I was
fucking someone else.

And yet,
another part of me was aggressively pissed-off that his inflated ego rendered
him completely unable to believe that I could exist as someone independent of
him. That I was still that red-faced girl, collapsed on the floor of her
apartment, drowning in my own tears.

Like a
film reel, my thoughts flashed to Dr. Greene, and how I felt so helpless at the
thought of his perennial absence once I was overseas. How my privileged success
felt like spare change in the light of losing him.

And I had
to say it, even if the thought made me sick: maybe Evan had a point. But I
still didn't want to nurse the notion.

“You have
no idea,” I told him. “You don't know anything about me, Evan. But you know, I
now know that I'm damn glad I never tried stringing this along again.”

A moment
later, the cab arrived. I got inside, shut the door, and didn't roll the window
down to give him some kind of dramatic parting remark. I was ready to go.

I texted
Dr. Greene, but never received a response. Which wasn't a big deal, because
this wasn't something galactic, and I refused to breathe life into the reality
that I now existed as some orbiting planet that revolved around him. Some
isolated, lonely planet.

Pluto. I
had become Pluto.

But, as
luck would have it, I wouldn't have been able to read his response, anyway.
Because when I got out the cab and began running up the steps, one of my sandal
wedges collapsed, and my phone went hurtling from the second floor down to the
first.

Nothing
like a flight of stairs to break a phone.

I picked
it up, my throat clenching when I saw the sliver of broken glass.

And then,
inside the apartment, I tried to turn my computer on: blue screen, then,
bleep.
Dead.

“Are you
absolutely kidding me right now?”

I curled
up in a ball, reminding myself that I was a grown up, and that these things
were just that –
things –
and I shouldn't cry about them. That, despite
the evening's excessive amount of bullshit, I had many great things going on in
my life. I had awesome parents. I had achieved a proper college education. I
had a roof over my head until summer ended, a job, and a spot at the University
of Cambridge. What could I really complain about?

But of
course I cried. Because I'm human. And because I loved my stuff. The little
things. The little, stupid objects that we become so freaking attached to.

I sat
there, legs against my chest, half-sobbing until my phone finally rang, and I
picked it up, and Dr. Greene's voice melded softly against my ear:

“Everything's
breaking,” I told him, sniffling.

“What's
wrong, honey?” the concern was immediate, washing over me in such a way that I
clung to it. A small bit of comfort. “What's breaking?”

“Everything,”
I wiped my face. “I'm sorry. I'm being stupid.”

“You're
not being stupid,” he insisted. He sounded almost paternal. More of a grown-up
than I obviously was. “Are you at home? Is anyone with you?”

“Yes,
no,” I answered. “Can you come over?”

“I'm at
the hospital,” he answered smugly. “On call. I'll be here for another few
hours.”

“Well,” I
said. “What if I met you at the hospital? I need to see you.”

“Mia...”
he sighed. “How much money are you spending on cab fare?”

“I don't
care,” I answered, and he said quickly:

“You
should,” and then. “Fine. Meet me in the cafeteria. I'll reimburse your cab
expenses.”

“You
don't have to.”

“I want
to,” he said. “See you soon, little fox.”

A female
voice clipped the background. And then, just like that:

Click.

He hung up.

The
cafeteria itself was long closed, but there was still a vending machine where
you could get a cheap cup of coffee. I waited at one of the tables, stirring
the cream around and watching it swirl. The hospital itself seemed deathly
quiet.

When Dr.
Greene arrived, he looked exhausted. He had a red stain on his usually clean
lab-coat. His hair was rumpled, his eyes heavy. The only pang of disappointment
I felt was when I reached out to squeeze his hand, and he withdrew.

“We can't
here,” he said, hushed. “I'm sorry.”

I nodded.
Took a sip of coffee. Dr. Greene watched me intently, warmly.

“Please
tell me that's not blood on your coat,” I said. “Ketchup, maybe?”

“Red
ink,” he explained. “Or, you know, it might be blood. I don't think you
actually want an answer to that.”

I
cringed. He chuckled lightly.

“So what
broke today?” he pressed. I sighed.

“My
computer, and my phone screen,” I told him. I slid my phone out, showing him
the evidence. “And when I went home, and tried to turn on my computer, it gave
me a big ol' blue error screen, then just up and died on me.”

It felt
weird and honestly a little bit uncomfortable, complaining about these things
to him. It was one of those few collective moments where I could really feel
the things that divided us. Not just age, but social status, financial status,
and the simple wedge of time and experience that I didn't have yet. I could see
it in his eyes when I looked up at him. Almost a sort of:
oh, when I was
your age
...

Glancing
around first, making sure all was clear, he touched my elbow. I guess it was
something.

Reaching
over, he took the coffee that was sitting in front of me, and drank it down in
three gulps. When he wiped his mouth, it reminded me of being back in the
examining room, and how I'd gone down on him, and how I'd wiped my mouth after.
Swiping the back of my hand against my lips.

“Too
sweet,” he remarked. “The doctor in me wants to lecture you on excessive sugar
intake, Miss Holloway.”

“I won't
listen.”

“I know,”
he said. “That's what I like about you, little fox. You're your own person. You
live and breathe on your own terms.”

But
barely without you
, I thought. Only he had no idea.

I
accepted the folded bills he slid across the table for cab fare. He told me
that I really needed to consider getting a car. I told him obviously, and hoped
he didn't have some kind of ulterior motive running through his head. Of
course, you know, those kind of knee-jerk fantasies pop up. I hated myself for
thinking about it, but I did. There was that quick, snap-shot of a thought:
waking up to some kind of shiny, brand new car sitting in the parking lot.

Suppressing
the image, I closed my eyes. If my phone wasn't destroyed, I would have texted
him some little goodnight message.

But
honestly? When I got home, I was tired. I fell into bed, still in my jeans and
sweatshirt, still smelling vaguely of house-party and hospital, and disappeared
quickly into sleep.

And even
though, deep down, I knew I would be leaving, and I knew of the sheer audacity
in believing that I could actually have something with Dr. Greene was
completely ludicrous, and that come fall I would be departing for Cambridge,
for a life across the pond, and that in due time I would never see the doctor
that I'd fallen in love with. It would end, like so many things do.

I still
dreamt about him. Because he was all I ever dreamt about. My life, my thoughts,
my heart, were tangled around him like thorns.